Intolerable
by Jacob Oliver
Summary: ON HIATUS. H/D Slash. Harry falls for the irresistibly charming Blaise, who invites him to the Zabini estate for summer holidays. During his stay, however, a certain insufferable blonde refuses to leave him alone. A romantic-comedy.
1. Chapter I

A friendly note: All canon following _Goblet of Fire_ is herein disacknowledged; that is to say all things vis-à-vis war and impending war.

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><p><strong>Intolerable<strong>

****by Jacob Oliver****

**Chapter I.**

Draco Malfoy, having too much regard for his unflinching character and incontestable superiority, could not allow for any mere tempest to frighten him indoors. Whereas all the others had cowered beneath sheets and eiderdowns, Draco Malfoy―fearless, powerful, blonde―stepped into the bitter downpour with only partial concern for his cashmere. It was, after all, 'dry-clean only'; and rain, as far as he knew, was not very dry at all. Still, as a testament to said fearlessness, he displaced his anxieties and took to the Quidditch pitch, where, in having recently perused a copy of _The Most Dangerous and Deadly Quidditch Maneuvres_, he was determined to practice every one that did not result in either serious injury, minor bruising, chaffing of the thighs, or the potential tearing of any seam in his greatcoat.

Upon arriving, however, he quickly apprehended that he was not alone on the pitch and, to his great provocation, that the attending party was a troupe of Gryffindors. Draco counted three of them hard by, all zipping about the air without any consideration afforded to grace or finesse. He recognised all of them, though of the first two he wasn't particularly acquainted: he knew only that they, both of them, were of half-blood families; that the one nearest the goalpost was called Thompson (or was it Thomas?); and that the one carrying the flask was decidedly Irish and, Draco wagered, played the fiddle. And, as for the remaining Gryffindor, whom of the three he found the most detestable, and most shabbily dressed, Draco knew all this of him: that he was a stinking, red-haired peon of a person whose large and unwashed family, though pure in blood, was nevertheless baseborn and ignoble on every account.

Draco scowled when he heard their voices, chirruping in the air like diseased fowls, happy despite their inferior stations in life and bloodline; and although he thought it most insupportable to have to wait his turn behind them, Draco knew that he certainly could never be seen flying about _beside _them. Thus resigned, Draco took to the grandstand, where, climbing up the steps amid the steady patter of rain, he heard the sound of a familiar voice echo somewhere in the near distance.

"We've been friends for a long time now…"

Indeed, at the far corner of the stand sat a boy—alone, Draco observed, and talking to himself. Curiosity betook his better judgment, and, creeping ever closer to this doubtless mentally unstable individual, Draco perceived him to be none other than Harry Potter. But why should he be here, and so very far away from his friends?

"I know I shouldn't have kept it from you, Ron... Ron, I know I shouldn't have kept it from you, but I wasn't sure you'd understand..." He released a strangled breath and drove a hand through his dark, ill-kempt hair. "No, that smacks of accusation."

It had now become apparent to Draco that Harry was indeed not talking to himself, but was instead rehearsing some decidedly painful confession; and, as pleased as Draco was to be present for such delightful anguish, he was equally disappointed that Harry was not bound for St. Mungo's after all.

He listened on persistently, excited by this little adventure of espionage, but also grew rather wearied by Harry, who continually stopped and started, went around in circles, and ultimately refused to come to the point. Nevertheless, Draco speculated, if it were indeed so difficult for Harry to speak aloud, and if he had been so fearful of it that he deprived even his closest friend of its details, then even money could not price this most shocking of secrets. Now, if only Harry would stop his fidgeting and come straight to it!

But, unfortunately for Draco, Harry did not, for he, not without first stomping about in his frustration, mounted his broom and flew off into the harsh and cold. Draco was not to be discouraged, however; he would uncover Harry's private ignominy should it take pursuing him all the day or surveilling him all the night. Thus inspired by this keenest determination, Draco mounted his own broom and, smoothing away his fringe, shot off after the ever-afflicted Gryffindor.

He found Harry by the lakeside, seated under the drips and drops of an overhanging willow. The rainfall here was boisterously loud and barraged the surface of the lake relentlessly.

Draco alighted on muddy soil, which, had his detective work not been so engaging a task, would have caused him much distaste and ill-humour; but, as circumstances were such that his concentration was occupied entirely by Harry and his undoubtedly mortifying secret, Draco was too busy creeping toward the willow tree to be the wiser of it.

Moving quietly along the trunk of the willow and finally hiding himself behind low-hanging branches, Draco strained an anxious ear toward the other boy. "I do hope it's awfully disturbing," he whispered to himself in a childish sort of glee, "something so vulgar, so abominable of which he'd never live down." Draco's well-wishes were interrupted, however, as Harry began, once again, to speak aloud his confession.

"Ron, there's been something I've been meaning to tell you... Ron, we've been friends for a long, long time, and what I have to say will likely come as shock, but I—I think I—"

It took every modicum of temperance and restraint for Draco not bound out and simply shake the secret from him. Why did Harry dawdle so? Was his secret so reprehensible that, even in his solitude, he dared not utter it? But even as Draco's patience wore thin, his curiosity advanced doubly so. However long it took, Draco resolved to wait and listen on.

"Ron, please don't be angry at me. Depend upon it, I am still the same person you've known all these years. So it shouldn't matter that I'm... Ron, why should it matter that I'm... Oh, for fuck's sake, I'm a queer bent bum-boy!"

Harry and Draco clasped their hands over their mouths at the very same instant; and although the action itself was corresponding, the basis was in fact wholly dissimilar, for while the former clutched his lips in a profound shame, the latter, with all due propriety, held it closed in utter delight.

But could it be so? Could it be that the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, he whom the wizarding world relies upon to vanquish the Dark Lord,—could this very same person be, of all things, a nancy-boy? And yet it was all true; Draco had heard him with his own ears and so had no reason to believe otherwise.

Above all his contemplation, however, Draco was all gaiety, and could only just repress the urge to break into endless laughing and amusement. Indeed, such delight taken at the expense of one's bitter nemesis soon surmounts all temperance; and as this was such a circumstance and as Harry was such a nemesis, Draco freely displaced all forbearance and was ready to convey to Harry all his shock and jollity. Before he was able, however, there was a great whooshing heard overhead, and the three Gryffindors of Draco's earlier disdain arrived and greeted their dark-haired friend.

They descended to a low hover beside Harry and expressed their surprise to have found him here rather than at the grandstand, where he had formerly told them he should be. Harry was immediately all apology, contriving some rather paltry explanation of his having wanted some time to himself, but adding that he should happily attend them now. They accepted without much reflection and, eventually dismounting their broomsticks, remained for some time on with him talking idly about various masculine subjects such as Quidditch trading cards and bodily malodours. It was no great surprise therefore that the subject of girls arose, and each boy detailed, with uncommon specificity, the figure and appearance of their ideal girl. Soon it came upon Harry to relate his own description, and with much difficulty, to be sure, he endeavoured to produce one.

"My ideal girl," he began slowly, hoping to draw inspiration from what the others had said, "is, no doubt, beautiful." He looked to them, hoping that this would suffice but, as they all appeared to be in anticipation, added, "She would have to be a rather agreeable sort of girl and polite and it wouldn't hurt if she were fond of Quidditch."

They were all, Harry noticed, looking at him rather strangely, and at this he reddened a little, uncertain of what further to contribute until Ron finally inquired as to her physical description.

"Oh yes!" Harry returned with new determination, "her body, of course. Well, surely I'd like her, for example, to have long, flowing hair..."

The boys nodded their agreement.

"Yes, and certainly, she ought to, I imagine, have bright, sparkling eyes..."

They concurred that eyes were indeed a most valuable asset.

His friends' approval inspired in Harry a greater confidence, and he continued on in a manner more animated. "And she must have pretty hands and healthy fingers and—strong elbows!"

It had not been long after their discussion that Harry and his friends departed the lake and flew back to the castle; and Draco, who had hitherto remained concealed, emerged from behind the branches, shaking off the foliage and feeling all the amusement of having spied on their conversation. No longer did there prevail in Draco any doubt concerning Harry's confession; and, after collecting his broom, he flew back to the castle satisfied that Harry's perfect ineptitude at the subject of girls was only further testament to his true preference.


	2. Chapter II

**Intolerable**

****by Jacob Oliver****

**Chapter II.**

On the first day of Harry's attending Hogwarts School, it had been the Sorting Hat's intention that Slytherin House be Harry's destination. However, Harry had designs of his own accord and, with a despicable sort of independent thought often observed in parentless children, dismissed the Hat's recommendation as folly, insisting that his own interests be complied with. And the Hat, predisposed to complaisance toward Wizardingkind, obliged the small boy's demands and, against all better judgment, sorted Harry into Gryffindor House.

Now, years onward―the morning after his rainy excursion to the lakeside―, Harry questioned for the first time his placement into that very House upon which he had once been so insistent. Gryffindor, it was understood, was the House of courage and resolve, but of these noble qualities Harry knew he was in want. But into what other House could he have been sorted? Ravenclaw? He hadn't the studiousness. Slytherin? He hadn't the cunning. And Hufflepuff? Surely he wasn't _so_ insignificant. In any House, it seemed, he would have been only a pollutant;―Gryffindor just drew the short straw.

Oh, why couldn't Harry be braver? Why couldn't he pluck up the courage to tell Ron what he so desperately needed to?―he was after all his oldest and most bosom friend. Indeed, he had been determined, before he slept, that in the morning he would finally confess all and leave nothing for speculation, but as the dawn broke, he knew the night's ardour had been a mere trick of the mind; and his fear of losing Ron, which seemed to him greater than any guilty feeling, returned Harry once again to immanence.

And though Harry's mood remained in the melancholy of yesterday, the morning around him surmounted it's prior grayness and entered into a brighter, cheerful day. Indeed, the recent storm had subsided, the sun shone afresh, and all the restless students, who had the Saturday abided in their dormitories, could now finally break free. Many of them took to the park and the lakeside to frolic about and merrymake, and still more ventured into Hogsmeade Town. Indeed, even several of the staff, though to the contempt of Snape and the distaste of McGonagall, had joined the students in their festivities, forsaking deportment for the joys of kinder weather.

The castle, for the most part, was as empty as ever it could be during school term, with only the lazy or friendless student remaining within,―and even these were unseen, being inclined to solitude and keeping to their dormitories.

Harry, though neither lazy nor friendless, was instead decidedly oppressed, and so himself remained indoors, having declined his friends' invitation to attend them at The Three Broomsticks. Had he come along, he reasoned, he should have only spoilt their jollity.

And so, his friends away, and he finally alone, Harry took to wandering the deserted halls, with all the appropriate detachment and inward self-abuse of only the truly afflicted. The opulence and grandeur that surrounded him: the paintings, the gold embellishments, the most splendid décor,―they had no meaning to him at all. Indeed, so distant was he from everything, so gone from the world and all its joys, that at present he simply could not abide any attention to it**. **Thus lost in his own consciousness, he could not and did not observe, as he rounded the corner, that someone was running most recklessly toward him.

This particular fellow, in a haste of both body and mind, was thereby also unaware of his environs;―and, where there are in fact two wholly preoccupied individuals coming toward each other, and one at great pace, there is only the consequence of a most impolite tangle of bodies.

Indeed, Harry soon found himself sprawled most indelicately upon the floor. He was unable to breathe or rise up for the weight upon him and soon apprehended, by the groans it uttered, that there was in fact a person lying atop him; and by the feel of the body, the broadness and the hard muscles,―a male.

When the stranger finally brought himself up in part, allowing for an inch or so of distance between them, Harry was able for the first time to discern his identity. Dark, Mediterranean eyes looked down at him, and a golden curl fell upon Harry's face. The proximity of their breaths, the adjacence of their bodies, and the handsomeness of Blaise Zabini caused such a color in Harry's cheeks that he began, in a most indecorous and mortified manner, to struggle and squirm away.

In response, Blaise stood obligingly and, with an amused sort of apology, extended his hand to Harry. The latter, however, looked at it with a mixture of shock and suspicion,―indeed, too prejudiced by House rivalry to accept it. But when his attention returned to Blaise's eyes, Harry saw in them something which bespoke a most affable nature, and with no further hesitation, Harry received Blaise's hand and allowed himself to be lifted up.

Grateful for Blaise's kindness and ashamed of having judged him so severely, Harry wanted both to thank him and to apologise for his previous manner, but, their hands still intimately connected, it seemed for him impossible to form any words at all. He parted his lips, determined to say something, anything, to stop himself appearing so foolish and so uncivil, but, only compounding his mortification further, a small, unintelligible squeak escaped him. He reddened instantly, certain that Blaise thought him a special kind of fool, but instead the latter smiled at him so reassuringly that Harry, for all his insecurities and self-abasement, could not but feel all the consolation of it. Said Blaise after, "I'm sorry, Harry, but I must rush off; I'm in a spot of trouble, you see."

Harry was all fear and concern for his newest friend, and for this his speech returned at once and in double measure. "Trouble? Then I will help you. You've been running, is there someone after you? Is there someone trying to hurt you? Oh, I have long misjudged you, Mr Zabini, I thought you just another Slytherin to be despised. Now I see that I was wrong, and I stand ashamed. I pray you, let me make amends; let me help you."

Before Blaise could answer him, however, he was interrupted by a loud clamor from the end of hall, followed most frightfully by a barrage of hexes and curses that were being fired at their very direction.

"Run!" Blaise exclaimed, pulling Harry along with him; and the latter, lest he be struck by an Incendio, obliged.

They rounded a corner and hid behind a long, crimson tapestry on the wall.

In the darkness, Harry whispered, "Why are we hiding? We must stand up and fight him."

"No, no, Harry," Blaise said, "we must let him get it out of his system. He'll level down eventually."

"Oh, but he seemed so terribly wild and angry."

There was a laugh in Blaise's reply. "Yes, I suspect he did, but, honestly, when is he ever in good humour?"

It was then in Harry's mind to ask whom was pursuing them, but his question was in fact answered before it was even spoke; for in the same instant the tapestry was thrown open to reveal Draco Malfoy, with his sneering countenance and brutal glare, and his wand pointed dangerously toward Zabini. Harry, however, was hidden farther along in the tapestry, and thereby not perceived by him.

"We settle this as gentlemen, Zabini," said Draco with what seemed a volatile attempt at forbearance. "I require a duel."

Blaise, with unaltered spirits, simply inverted his pockets and said, "But Draco, pity, I haven't a wand to duel with. Not to worry, however, just abide here, and I shall just go to fetch it." He looked surreptitiously back to Harry, at whom he gave a wink before attempting to depart the scene.

It would not do for Draco, however, and he raised his wand high, beginning to cast an Impedimenta, when, to his astonishment, Harry bounded from the tapestry and cried, "Stupefy!"

Draco had no chance to evade the spell and was hit directly. His body fell rigid.

"Well done, Harry," said Blaise to him, clapping him on the back. "I dare say, I owe you a tall drink. In fact, I'm at the Hog's Head tonight. Join me?"

There was no immediate answer, however, as it appeared Harry's speech had returned once more to its unintelligible wretchedness; and so Blaise, who was indeed rather hurried to be gone lest Draco regain consciousness, answered for him. "What's that? You'd love to? Grand. I shall expect you there, Harry. Half-seven sharpish, yes?" He gave Harry a low, gracious bow and said, "Seeing you shortly then."

"B-but Malfoy," Harry managed to say, and they both looked to Draco's seemingly lifeless body.

"Oh, I'd rather not invite him actually. Don't get me wrong, he has impeccable manners, but he's a bit of an old mope, you see."

"No, I mean, what do we do? He's just lying there."

"Just leave him, Harry. He'll be fine. A little Stupefy's never hurt anyone. He looks rather peaceful actually, and I shouldn't want to wake him. Anyway, I must dash, if I intend to get my hair done. So, ciao, bella." And with this, he finally departed.

"_Bella_," Harry repeated to himself. "That's Italian for 'beautiful'! A beautiful _girl_, to be semantic, but what of it?―he thinks I'm beautiful."

Harry was all elation and transport. Blaise Zabini, tall, dark, and handsome, condescended to call him, Harry Potter―who was otherwise short, scarred, and sallow―"beautiful." He was unpacifiable in his rapture. He alternately sat and stood and even danced a jig, forgetting altogether the true offensiveness and vulgarity of such an occupation.

Fortunately, it was interrupted before it cause any great harm to his reputation. The sound of soft groans returned him from his heights, and Harry, turning toward the source, perceived Draco stirring awake. Anticipating Draco's retaliation, both upon himself and Blaise, Harry acted swiftly and plucked the boy's wand from him and pocketed it.

Shortly thereafter, Draco rose and, looking about for his wand, and finding it nowhere, and seeing Harry poised for attack, deduced that it had in fact been seized from him, that he was thus vulnerable, and that he was to forebear any sudden or threatening movement. Still he dusted his coat and adjusted his cravat and indeed remained all composure and decorum, those certain noble qualities of the wealthy and superior.

He tilted his head in civil greeting and said, "I believe I've misplaced my wand, Potter. Do you happen to know where it might have gone?"

"You can't have it, Malfoy!" Harry answered in aggravated tones, and with no common respect to delicacy.

"What are you, Potter, a common thief? Don't be absurd. You can't keep my wand. It isn't yours."

"But I will keep it!...At least only until I know that Blaise has safely acquired his."

"_Blaise_, you say? Do you call him by his Christian name? I dare say, you've not even been introduced! But then, why bother with civility when one is the Golden Boy?"

"I meant Zabini."

"Yes, well, need I remind you that Zabini is a Slytherin? That he's my friend and not yours?"

"Oh? Do you always cast hexes on your friends, Malfoy?"

A pause by Draco, then;―"That isn't your concern."

"Depend upon it, Malfoy, I will not let you hurt him."

Harry's words were spoken so sincerely, and so threateningly, that for a moment Draco had no immediate riposte; indeed, it unbalanced Draco more than he cared to admit. But as good breeding cannot allow for such unbalances, surely it had departed him before it could even dare manifest. Said Draco shortly, "Potter, I think you've finally snapped your twig. Pray, what reason could you possibly have for concerning yourself with Zabini? Well? I should very much like to hear it."

Harry's response was not intentional, nor was it even spoken, for, though he pleaded that his cheeks remained untinged, they quickly filled with a hot, bright red.

Draco witnessed it at first and only momentarily with confusion, until all the remembrances of the previous day returned to mind. "My God, Potter. You like him!"

Harry nearly dropped his wand in alarm and, trying desperately to compose himself, and failing quite utterly, said, "What? No! Of course not! You're mad!"

But Draco heard none of it and, shaking his head in what seemed an odd mixture of astonishment and comprehension, sat down on a stone bench beside the wall. "I should have known. Of course you like Blaise. Everyone does."

"I don't like him! He's―a _boy_, for God's sake."

Draco smiled bitterly at Harry. "What did he do? Bat those golden eyelashes at you and tell you he wasn't to blame?"

"What? No, he didn't tell me anything!"

"Right, so you don't even know what's going on, you just melted at the very sight of him, did you, and decided he must be protected at all cost?"

"No! I―that's not what happened at all! Malfoy! I'm not―"

Draco stood from his seat. "Spare me, Potter. I'm not Weasley, you needn't convince me of anything. Look, I haven't the patience for any more of this. Just owl me my wand tonight. Will you do at least that?"

Harry appeared to want to say more, to dispute Draco's insinuations, to demand why he would even entertain such a presumption, but the resoluteness in Draco's countenance informed him that there would be no point in pursuing it further; and so, shutting his mouth, he merely nodded in response.

"Right," Draco replied, and before quitting the hall, gave a short bow, saying, "Good day to you, then."

And when Harry was finally left alone to contemplate the morning's occurrences, all the mortification of Draco's baseless and fraudulent allegations about his sexual preference, still could not surmount that irrepressible excitement which overtook him when he thought of his coming _date_ with Blaise Zabini.

And so, Harry Potter, with bouncing step and happy manner, made his way toward the library, determined to learn the Italian for "I love you" before half-seven sharpish.


	3. Chapter III

**Intolerable**

****by Jacob Oliver****

**Chapter III.**

His wristwatch alerting him to the nearness of the occasion, Harry alternated in a frenzy between wardrobe and looking-glass, unable to find any reassurances in either his attire or physical appearance. He had nothing appropriate, it seemed, for such an engagement, finding among the heap in his armoire only school-clothes for which is apparent, play-clothes for Quidditch and other such tumble, various shirts and denim trousers, and, finally, one four-piece dinner suit which he reserved for the odd ball or school ceremony.

All other attire being unjustifiable, Harry thus settled for the last of his findings. Certainly it was more formal than was proper for a night in the town, but to attend Blaise Zabini in grass-stained jeans and a purple T-shirt which boasted "EpiPen® Auto-Injector" (unmistakably a birthday present from his diabetic uncle), would be the kind of mortification which Harry knew he could not possibly survive. And yet, in front of the looking-glass, standing at a slouched five-foot-five, his hair unmanageably mussed, his skin pallid, and his dinner suit a size or four too large, Harry began to consider that, frankly, it would be of no consequence whatever he wore. Indeed, he would be as unprepossessing in one as in the other.

Thus resigned, Harry quitted the dormitory in said suit and, upon entering the common room, found Ron and a few other housemates chatting idly and playing a game of Halma. Harry's quareness of dress not escaping their notice, they fell into silence and curiosity.

"Erm,―Harry," Ron finally said, "what are you―_why _are you wearing that?"

Harry murmured some ill-contrived explanation about "all his other clothes being in the wash," and hurried off before any more questions might be raised. He did not relish the lies and secrecies, and considered the deceiving of one's friends to be a most lowly and detestable wrongdoing; but, he told himself, the guilt must be left for some other hour, for, stepping out into the crisp, June air, he thought only of Blaise and of what burning and passionate romance the evening would very soon afford them.

As he neared the Hog's Head, Harry's heart, as it naturally should be, was wildly a flutter, beating to that trepidatious rhapsody of young love. And when he approached the entrance and saw Blaise standing outside it, leaning his back against the wall, bringing between his lips a newly lit cigarette, and inhaling with all the cool suave of teenage rebellion, Harry quickly realised that more than only his heart was pumping with blood; and suddenly he was very grateful for the looseness of his suit.

"Buono sera," Harry said to him, his long hours of repetition preventing that usual stutter in Blaise's presence. "Come sta?"

A throaty cough followed Harry's address, he being generally unacquainted with tobacco smoke or any of the kind, and Blaise, with fond consideration for his friend and only gentle laughter, extinguished his cigarette promptly on the wall adjacent. "I don't understand a blithering word you're saying, Harry. Is that Parseltongue? No? Anyway, in we go, and out of the cold, what?" He slung an arm round the smaller boy's shoulders and led the way indoors.

With what melting heart, buckling knees, and mind a whirl Harry went beneath his arm, need hardly be described. And, moreover, with what crushed spirit, drooping heart, and forlorn countenance Harry arrived at their table and perceived Pansy Parkinson, may be equally unambiguous.

"Er―hi," was Harry's polite greeting and, endeavouring to dissemble those apparent signs of disappointment at her being present, extended his hand toward her to be shaken. She neither received the gesture nor acknowledged it, however, for, opening her fan between them and turning to Blaise, she proceeded to comment with eager disapprobation on the poor quality of the chairs, the coarseness of the soft furnishings, and the something of shoddiness of most everything else.

Blaise answered her with great solicitude. He assented that indeed the Hog's Head was not known for its décor or the particular superiority of any of its furnishings, soft or otherwise; professed that he was most grieved it had displeased her, hoping, in spite of it, she might still enjoy herself; and requested that, should she allow him, might he present his newest acquaintance, Mr. Harry Potter?

That particular rudiment of propriety met at last, she accordingly granted Harry her acknowledgment with a vague look toward his direction.

"Hi," Harry began once more, but upon seeing the graveness in her mien, modified it appropriately to, "I mean,―how do you do, Miss Parkinson?"

Satisfied with the modification, Pansy inclined her head and, after deigning him a compliment regarding the fineness of his suit, asked him whether he thought he might one day grow into it.

Harry, being all embarrassment, knew not how to reply and so was grateful for Blaise's interruption.

"So, drinks, yes?"

"A brandy, I think," said Pansy to him. "Yes, I should like half-a-brandy in a clean glass, thank you."

"And you, Harry?"

"Erm―pint of Newcastle?"

"Pint of Newcastle. By Jove! I think I'll have one myself. Yes, one half-a-brandy and two Newcastles."

"No," Pansy interjected, "you shall have half-a-brandy as well, Mr. Zabini. I will not have you seen drinking anything so northern. And a whole _pint_ of it, to boot! But _you_ may drink what you like, Mr. Potter; I'm sure I have no objections."

Harry fidgeted for a moment but soon acquiesced, saying, "I'll have half-a-brandy, too, Blaise. I mean, Mr. Zabini."

"You mustn't mistake me, Mr. Potter," said Pansy to him, as Blaise left to fetch their drinks. "Do not think I dislike Newcastle. I'm very fond of coal in the winter. And I do love visiting the northern provinces as anywhere―the people are so very quaint and humble―, but it cannot mean that we should adopt their customs and drink their beers. I do thoroughly detest the adage 'When in Rome...' For example, here we are in Hogwarts, in the Scottish Highlands, but, I pray you, have ever you seen me brandishing a bagpipe and playing 'My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean'? I will tell you,―no, you have not. Decorum, Mr. Potter,―we must maintain it even when very far from home."

Blaise returned with their drinks, and, the occasion now requiring for polite conversation, Pansy took upon herself the whole weight of the responsibility; and she talked without pause, excepting a few quick gulps of her drink, for the entirety of the round.

Harry paid very little attention to her, however, hearing only snippets of disapprobation regarding Muggles, goblins, elves, and certain ethnic and religious minorities. Only Blaise engaged his mind, toward whom he sneaked long and longing glances; and even then all his handsomeness and charm did little to enliven Harry's present spirits.

What pangs of jealousy and melancholy filled Harry, watching, as a lonely bystander, the tender intimacies of Blaise and his, he dared say, _harlot_. He should make a much more suitable harlot for Blaise, Harry decided, for he was gentler and less imperious than awful, awful Pansy Parkinson. Oh, why could not it be him that Blaise doted on so affectionately?―him that Blaise sat pressed against, idly stroking his hair?―and him that Blaise listened to with eager and rapturous attentions?

Harry gulped his drink and was all too prepared for another. "I'll get the next round, yeah?" said he, between a few of Pansy's remarks concerning "those pesky Orientals."

"You drink rather quickly," said she, vexed by the interruption. "No, Mr. Potter, I sha'n't have another, and neither will Mr. Zabini. But I am happy to know his debt to you is paid;―debts must be paid, after all, and so I am glad of it. But, however deep a regret it may be on either side, we must finally take leave of each other." She rose, though she hadn't quite finished her brandy. "It was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Potter, in spite of the something of dullness in your manner and sociability.―Oh! that horrid look on your face. You mustn't think it an insult, Mr. Potter, for, on my honour, it is not! Rather, it is a motivation to seek out those necessary skills which, I dare say, you are in dire poverty of. Why, throughout our whole conversation, you proved to have nothing at all to contribute, and so, I pray you, can one honestly expect either Mr. Zabini or myself to long to stay? Foolishness! Hence, I bid you good evening, good health, and so on. Don't let's not be strangers, however. Should we encounter one another in the hallway, I can see no reason why an inclination of the head cannot be granted, allowing of course that we're alone and there is no other person to be witness to it. Come along, Mr. Zabini."

Harry was certain that he perceived a small element of regret or guilt in Blaise's countenance, and in the way he applied to her that "surely they could stay for just one more round."

"My dearest Mr. Zabini, heart of my heart, soul of my soul," said she with all the tenderness and affection of one deeply in love, "might I request a word with you outside? Hm? We sha'n't be a moment, Mr. Potter; and I assure you, on our return, Mr. Zabini and I will be of one, singular mind. Come."

But there was no return as was professed, for, thirty minutes having passed since their stepping out, found Harry seated alone at their table, his glass still empty, and his forehead pressed despondently upon the varnish.

"Ditched, yes?"

Harry looked slowly upward, peeling himself from the wooden surface. "Malfoy," said he, as the other gave a short bow. "What are you doing here?"

"It's rather a popular Slytherin haunt, after all. You can have your Three Broomsticks any day."

"Still, I dare say, it's hardly opulent enough for a Malfoy."

"Ah, but it is _evil_ enough, would not you say?"

Harry snorted. "Whatever, Malfoy. Look, just go away before Zabini and Miss Parkinson return."

"Zabini and Miss Parkinson? Not the same Zabini and Miss Parkinson that were headed back to the castle?"

Harry let his head fall back onto the table. "Bastards. Bloody bastards."

"What are you drinking, Potter?"

"What? Why?"

"I'm going to the bar, and I should like to know what you're drinking."

Harry was all amazement and knew not how to react. Here was Malfoy, his sworn enemy, his arch-rival in everything, offering to buy him a drink. What could he mean by it? Harry pondered the situation carefully but could intuit only one sensible explanation for such an inexplicable civility. He meant to poison him.

"I'm not going to poison you, Potter, if that's what you're thinking."

"I―no, I wasn't―. I didn't think you were going to―. No, of course you wouldn't."

Draco assessed the glass. "A brandy, is it?"

"Sorry? No, actually. Miss Parkinson―"

"Made you all order brandies. She would, indeed.―No, I misspeak. _Half_-brandies. Yes, that's her drink. At any rate, what are you really having then? A beer, is it?"

Harry considered all the mortifications, disappointments, and altogether strangeness of the evening thus far. "Straight scotch."

It really was a most unearthly experience. A looker-on may have easily misperceived them to be spending an evening together. But they were not, Harry reminded himself; Draco was simply there to poison him, and nothing more.

Draco having returned and given Harry his drink, the latter brought it to his nose, sniffing out for that distinctive fume, which, being alerted to no trace of it, he soon apprehended he didn't know the bastarding smell of.

"What do you mean by all this, Malfoy? Why are being so civil? Certainly you cannot actually want to spend time with me?"

"No?"

"No! No, indeed you cannot! We're enemies!"

"I am familiar with the terms of our association, Potter. But, well,―" (and his countenance bore a cruel sort of happiness); "this is all far too amusing to pass by, would not you say?"

"What? What's too amusing?"

"Well, _you_, in that awful, oversized suit. And all to impress Blaise!" Try as Harry did to protest, Draco would not allow him, and he talked on with increasing gratification. "And then to think _Pansy_ came along! What I would give to have seen the despondence on your face! It must have broken you! Shattered your gay little dreams."

Harry was beyond mortification, beyond mere blushing, and indeed his face turned not red, but white as a counterpane. He now realised that Draco's words were not spoken as allegation, but rather as hard, undeniable facts. Draco knew, truly _knew_; though, by what means, Harry could not imagine. Oh, what fright, what horror filled him to think that his most wicked adversary had uncovered the darkest of his dark secrets; that the one who despised him most, and whom he equally despised, was keenly aware of the shameful and unspeakable yearnings of his heart.

"And then they ditched you! _He _ditched you," Draco continued on as though Harry's pain were but an anecdotal diversion. "To imagine the hours you must have spent in front of the mirror, fixing your hair, selecting the right clothes, worrying over your blemishes,―only to be _ditched_!"

Harry's mind was an anguished mélange of shame, betrayal, humiliation, horror, and love lost; and it was indeed more than any one boy could bare. There was a hot, stinging of vainly forborne tears and a quick, quivering gasp of air. Draco could not, _must_ not see him cry; Harry would not allow it―_that_ humiliation would be worst of all―, and so with frantic celerity, he rose and fled outdoors as the first signs of wetness betook his face. There, concealed by night and shadows, he restrained it no longer, crying not singly from the events of the evening, horrid as they were, but also, and most especially, from the hatred of his own wretched condition, which, he knew, no matter how desperately he wished to be normal, to be accepted, to be loved, would lead him only to the contrary of each.

"Potter."

Damnation! Why had Draco followed him? Could not he be satisfied enough to have caused him to weep and sink into this most vulnerable and lamentable state of being? Must he also remain to admire his own handiwork? Cruel, unfeeling boy!

"Potter. I―" There was a tone or inflection in Draco's voice which Harry did not recognise, but he thought little of it, for now exceeding his sadness and indeed any either rational or emotional thought, was an awful, burning fury that impelled his fist to clench and launch itself upon Draco's face.

"My nose! You've broken my nose! Lord! there's blood everywhere! You will regret this, Potter! Depend upon it, you _will_ regret it!"

But he regretted nothing, and, as Draco thundered off, clutching tremulously the dripping mess of his face, Harry instead felt a rising sense of accomplishment. Could this be the reason why more and more people resorted to acts of brutality and violence rather than words or peaceful co-operation? Indeed, what a feeling of power and championing surged through Harry, who, for a few, significant moments, forgot his troubles altogether and revelled in his decided victory over Malfoy.

"Harry." The voice startled him from his fond reverie.

Could it be? Surely not. Surely...

"Blaise?" He spun round and indeed, standing there as before was Blaise Zabini, who, Harry observed, was peculiarly dressed; for though he wore a greatcoat, which covered the majority of him, underneath it was hidden―did Harry perceive pyjamas?

"Yes, quite dashing, the outfit, is not it?" said Blaise, deducing Harry's thoughts. "You see, I sneaked out after Pansy fell asleep, and hence the satin. It is very comfortable; I recommend it over cotton any time. Do you sleep in satin, Harry?"

Oh! that blasted blush! "Erm―cotton, actually."

"Well, take it from me, satin is far more agreeable. I have an extra pair, should you want to lend it."

"I―" said Harry, though it was less a word than it was high-pitched squeak. "No, thank you."

"Ah, well, I shouldn't think it would fit you, anyway. At any rate, I am sorry for leaving so early, but when Pansy wants gone, you know?"

"Oh! no, please don't be sorry. I shall be sorry if you're sorry. I mean―"

Blaise flashed Harry that most charming smile which was particularly his own and which set Harry's heart a flame each time it was granted him. "Let me make it up to you, Harry. As you know, summer hols is nearly come, and I always throw a most delightful do at the old homestead. A week's worth of carousing and debauchery for me and all of my friends. Well, what say you to that? Will you honour me with your presence, Harry?"

Harry stood utterly agog, his mouth and eyes wide, his body motionless. Several seconds passed unspoken.

"Right," said Blaise, after giving Harry a long enough moment. "That's a 'yes', then?"

Although Harry answered him with no more than a nearly imperceptible nod, inwardly, he was leaping and springing every which way, and whirling like the merriest dervish, round and round and round. So perfectly astonished and so perfectly pleased was Harry to receive such an invitation, that it could not yet occur to him that the idea of a Gryffindor at a Slytherin party was, in fact, a most scandalous one. What would Blaise's friends say?; what would _his _friends say?, were questions that would later bring him much distress, but, for the while, walking back to the castle with Blaise's arm round his shoulders, he resolved to savour undisturbed these little, fleeting joys of the night.

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><p><strong>Do leave a review, even if it's that you think it's complete rubbish, and that the style is unreadable.<strong>


	4. Chapter IV

**Intolerable**

****by Jacob Oliver****

**Chapter IV.**

With quickening step, and frantic nerves, Draco hastened to the infirmary,―useless though he knew it would be to go, for he was certain of a most miserable and inevitable death. Surely, too much blood had already been lost for hope _not_ to be in vain; he only wondered how he had come to run this far.

Bastard! How could he? How could Potter, the 'Golden Boy' so-called, have been driven to murder him? Unwilled, the gruesome scene replayed itself in Draco's mind: Potter towers over him, a glint of sadistic happiness in his countenance. Draco pleads for his life, and beseeches that Potter spare him not for his sake, but for the world's, who should suffer a most tremendous loss were he to pass. 'Spare me,' Draco implores him. 'Do not you know that I am depended upon as a paragon of breeding and perfection that the lesser of the world might follow in my design?' But Potter is unmoved,―too self-important, too wicked! Draco begs him as a Christian to have pity. 'I am no Christian,' says he laughingly; and he reveals his scar―the Mark of the Beast! 'Compared to _my_ master, Voldemort is a mere insect!' A third plea is attempted, but again proven useless; and Potter, wild for blood and gore and all things pernicious, lunges at him and―. Draco forced the thoughts from his mind, for they were far too brutal and distressing to repass. Cruel, unfeeling boy!

A minute's work had repaired his injury. Madam Pomfrey, however irritated by the late call, had seen to him immediately; and, a quick healing enchantment having been cast, Draco's nose was as it had been hitherto the incident.

And, leaving the infirmary, Draco considered that though it was all very well his not passing away, it did in no way acquit Harry from his most grievous and unjust offense against him. A punishment from Draco was required, and by Harry inescapable; and he would not depend upon the professors to carry it out, who had always remained deaf and blind to any Gryffindor misdeed. No, he was determined that he _himself_ must realise it for it ever to come to fruition.

Draco had been taught many things in his childhood, among them hauteur, pride, vanity, and an unyielding disdain for the poor and hungry. He had not been studied in patience, however; and, the immediacy of Harry's punishment being his utmost priority, he ascended the staircase toward Gryffindor Tower, where, upon approaching, he encountered a first-year returning to the Common Room.

"You there, I say! Little boy!"

"You're, you're Mr Malfoy, sir," said he in a fearful, diffident tone.

"Yes, I am, indeed. Now, I dare say, do you like money?"

His small eyes lit up. "I do; yes, sir!"

"Then let's say―what?―two galleons for a little errand?"

"Oh, golly, sir! Thank you, sir!"

"Good. All I ask is that you tell Mr Ronald Weasley (you know him, yes?) that a visitor brings urgent news regarding a Mr Harry Potter. Should he ask who it is, only say you do not know, but that urgency demands he hurry out that very minute. Now, here is the first galleon; the second you will receive upon completion."

"Yes, sir. A whole galleon! And then another after!" He rushed into the Common Room, eager to fulfill his task; and in only a minute's time, he had run out again, his cheeks sanguine with exercise. "He's coming, sir! Mr Weasley's coming out!"

"You've done very well," said Draco to him, patting him lightly on the head. "What is your name?"

"Barnes, sir," said he, still panting. "Edward Barnes."

"Well, Mr Barnes, I believe am in a good disposition tonight. Here are two more galleons."

"Oh! sir. Three whole galleons! Thank you, sir!"

"Now, run along, Barnes; I should like to talk to Mr Weasley alone."

"They were wrong about you, sir," said Barnes to him before he left. "You're not a twat at all." His eyes widened in realisation of what he had said, and he clasped his mouth shut. Then, through his fingers: "Oh! sir, I'm ever sorry! I did mean well! I only meant to tell you that the others were wrong; and that despite what they say, I think you're very agreeable."

Draco glared down at him contemptuously, but perceiving enough fear in the boy's eyes, restrained anything more, and only said, "Go! before I take my money back, Barnes."

"Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!"

Draco did, however, allow himself a chuckle when Barnes was departed; but, hearing the door creak open again, he quickly recomposed his manner, ready to set the punishment in motion.

"Malfoy! What the hell are you doing here?" Weasley was all astonishment and suspicion.

"But didn't Barnes tell you? I have news. Of Potter."

"Yeah, well, what's the news then?" His eyes narrowed. "What did you do to him?"

"We do like to accuse, don't we, Weasley? I haven't done anything to Potter, for, on my soul, the news I bring has no bearing on myself, whatsoever."

"On your soul? You have no soul, Malfoy. I don't have any reason to trust you."

Draco only smiled at him. "You are justified in your opinion, Weasley. I grant, there is every reason to be suspicious. But, let's not have that be a hindrance, shall we? Does not Hermione have that vial of Veritaserum she'd brewed for Potions? All we need is a drop, you know? And I promise you, you'll be _very_ glad for the information it yields."

"She might do. But what's the catch, eh? What do you get out of it?"

Draco had already foreseen this line of inquiry and had resolved to use it to his advantage. "Potter stole my wand,―ten inch, hawthorn wood, unicorn hair. It should be somewhere around his bedside or drawer. I only ask for what is already mine."

"No! If Harry's taken it, he's taken it for good reason."

"Weasley. _Ron_," said he more affably, "you _will _want to hear this, I promise you. And all I want in return is my wand. He shall have to give back it to me eventually; but, I have no time to wait around for it; so, we make a trade,―what say you?"

"I don't need you to tell me anything about Harry. He's my best friend! If I just ask him, he'll tell me himself!"

"But that is where you are mistaken, Ronald. The fact of it all is that he's been hiding it from you for months,―maybe even years."

"No! You're wrong. There are no secrets between us!"

"Ah, but just a drop of Veritaserum, and you'll soon know the hideous truth behind Harry Potter. Are not you wild to know?"

Ron, though making no reply, was visibly folding under the curiosity; and indeed a few short moments saw Ron go in and come back out,―a vial in one hand, and Draco's wand in the other.

"You don't get it back yet, Malfoy. I want the information first. Here." He thrust the vial at Draco, who promptly opened it and swallowed a drop.

"Yummy."

"Take another, Malfoy, for good measure."

"As many drops as you'd like me to, of course."

"Now, tell me. And it better be good!"

"Depend upon it, Weasley, it's good; and it's rich; and just as you're wild to know, I'm wild to tell it. You see, your best friend, Harry Potter, has been keeping a rather startling secret from you; a secret, Weasley, that he fears might break your friendship forever."

"There's nothing in the world that could break our friendship!"

"So you say. Shall I continue? It is no small or trifling matter; and neither has it to do with anything he's _done_, as you say; but rather it concerns his very essence as a human person, and may in fact call into question everything you thought you knew about him" (a pause); "I dare say, you may not want hear it after all."

"Just say it, Malfoy!"

"But are you absolutely certain? This could very well ruin that happy brotherhood you and Potter have hitherto built."

"I want to hear it, Malfoy. Stop mincing words and just come out with it."

"Very well, if it be your wish. Here it is. Harry Potter, your best friend, closest ally, and brother (as good as), is―how does one phrase it?... He plays for the other team."

"What?"

"No? Erm, he's a bit light in the loafers?"

"Malfoy, what the hell are you talking about?"

"He's a poufter, Ron. Now, may I have my wand back?"

Ron paled utterly, his body completely immobilized; and so, for Draco, retrieving his wand was was no difficult feat; and, taking the opportunity as it came, he simply reached over and, without struggle from the former, extracted it from his hand.

After a moment: "Y-you're lying." Ron's voice was hoarse and strained. "He can't be. Harry doesn't wear dresses or make-up or nothing like that."

"I said he's gay, Weasley, not a transvestite. Mother of God, are you that backwards?"

"But...but how do you know―for sure?"

"I spied on him." Damn. He hadn't been prepared to admit that. "Yesterday, at the lakeside. I was there, behind the willow tree. Before you'd come, and Potter was alone, he confessed it aloud. And, moreover, I'm certain that he's perfectly infatuated with Blaise."

"Blaise? Blaise Zabini?"

"That's the one. In fact, only an hour ago, he went on what he thought was a date with him. Rather funny story, actually. Potter had worn this hideous dinner suit expecting a romantic evening; but then Blaise had brought Pansy along, and, you can imagine, Potter was in an awful state. Just heartbroken" (a moderate laugh); "I dare say, he'll survive it, however; though I don't know that he'll survive this. You look absolutely intolerant. I don't envy him, to be sure. Well, at any rate, good doing business with you, and regards to the Mudblood."

Making his way back to the Slytherin Dungeons, Draco felt all the gratification of revenge; and he only wished he could be present for Harry's return. What a confrontation it would be! And, although Draco had expected that Ron's reaction should be unfavourable, it was beyond his conjecture that Ron should be so ignorant about homosexuality altogether. Dresses and make-up? What _could_ Potter be in for? Oh! to be a fly on the wall, indeed!

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><p><strong>Do please review! I am gasping for a review!<strong>

**Also, animated, cartoonised fan-art is in the (rather slow) process of being developed. For those of you dear friends who wish to contribute to my fan-art cause, I will enthusiastically accept any drawing, "manip", flash animation, or other fan-work that you might condescend to grant me. I will, very soon, create a website where I can post these artworks. Thank you!**


	5. Chapter V

**Intolerable**

****by Jacob Oliver****

**Chapter V.**

That inevitable and altogether unpleasant confrontation, which Draco Malfoy had so eagerly longed to be witness to, unfolded as follows. Harry, having returned with all the blissfulness of his invitation foremost in his mind, and which held all his attentions, thereby could not discern the otherwise apparent change in Ron's demeanour. Harry greeted him with the warmest sanguinity and began to walk about the room, delighting at "this marvelous décor," and "that glorious fireplace," and "oh! the softness of this sofa!"; while sighing in intervals and gazing wondrously out at the moon. It brought nothing to Ron, however, but bitter disdain, for he knew what Harry was about; and, all his patience having worn away and all his disgust having become more than he could bare, he conveyed to Harry that alarming information which, through Draco, he had recently become aware of, and expressed his consequent horror and dismay at it. Harry's reactions, his own horror, his mortification, his utter despair, can be easily imagined; and the episode was thus finalised by an equal amount of shouting on Ron's side, and tears on Harry's; and of course, as is necessary on such heightened and impassioned circumstances as these, by Harry's subsequent running away to his bed and falling eventually into disquietful slumber.

The following day brought no abatement to Harry sorrows; for, though Ron had purposefully ignored him throughout, and thus prevented any further confrontation between them, by the evening, he had sent Hermione to deliver a rather disheartening message to Harry, which, though it pained her to a degree, was not impervious to her unexcitably logical and bookish mind.

"He says―and, upon my word, it is no pleasure of mine to impart, for indeed I am a most uneager messenger―; but he wishes me to―. Oh, I cannot understand what he means by it. What is there to be deduced by so rash and ill-tempered a decision? To be sure, Harry, I afforded it thorough rumination and not even my vast knowledge and perspicacious mind could find an answer. Perhaps _you_ can tell me why Ron does not desire your company at the Burrow this summer."

It was a long moment before Harry could answer; and even then it was only to repeat what she had already said and what he already knew. But perhaps, in repeating it to her, she might tell him that he had misheard, or that she had misspoken. "He―he doesn't want me there?"

"So he tells it; though, I dare say, oftentimes he cannot know what he actually wants. He's so always run away with passion and emotion; and it renders him too incapable of assaying the reality hidden beneath them; and while I do not pretend to know the reality in this situation, I can say, without any doubt of it, that your friendship means more to him than all the world."

"You couldn't know that, Hermione. If this has proven anything it is that, as a friend, I am disposable; that he can so easily toss me aside, and without a tear shed."

"No, indeed, he cannot 'easily toss you aside.' He has talked of nothing but _you_ all day, Harry, and he is very much in pain; and for you to suppose that it is in any way an effortless doing on his part, convinces me that you are either naïve, far too self-pitying, or perfectly stupid;―perhaps all three, to a respectively varying degree. Now, I do not know who is in the wrong here, if there even be one; but I do know that both of you need to stop behaving like such hysterical girls, and rather remodel yourselves after _me_. Mind over heart, Harry; logic over emotion. It is clear to me that Ron is suffering; and, in speaking to you, I am persuaded that you are afflicted likewise. Suffering, of course, is a negative emotion of which we should all like to purge ourselves; therefore, the only sound and intelligent solution is to uphold that already strong friendship that, between the both of you, mutually exists."

"Would that it were only so simple, Hermione. Ron has made his decision and―"

"I grant that indeed he _has_ made a decision, but it is one that cannot yet be enacted. Summer, though hard by, is _not_ come; and nothing can, until that time, be finalised. You have these few days to turn it around, Harry. Talk to him."

"I _have_, Hermione. Last night I―"

"No more, Harry. I have given you my advice, but you may do as you like. We're late for dinner, at any rate; everyone is already at table."

"Alright; but you go ahead, Hermione. I shall be down presently."

"Very well, I will," (and after a pause); "but do think about what I have said, Harry. I entreat you to consider―nay, dare you to contest―the undeniable logic behind it."

Alone in Common Room, Harry seated himself down to consider and to contest. He assented that indeed Ron must be hurting; but the pain, he concluded, was not that of losing or missing a friend, as was Hermione's insistence, but rather of being betrayed by one. She was correct on this point, however: that summer _is _not yet come, and so he _could_ potentially set things right; and though the likelihood of a favourable end was unconvincing, Harry felt he must try, whatever the consequence; and so, rising from his chair and taking to the Great Hall, he was determined after all to reconcile with his best friend.

When he arrived at table, he seated himself between Ron and Hermione; the latter looking hopeful and the former busying himself with his mushy peas. Harry lowered his voice that it might not be heard, though it was hardly necessary in the commotion of the Great Hall.

"Ron, can we talk?"

"No."

"Ron, please."

"No. Pass the salt, Seamus."

"Ron, I'm sorry. I know I should you told earlier."

"It doesn't matter; sorry or not, you're―you know."

"I―Ron, I don't want to be; honest. I wish I―. I would give anything to―. Please, Ron, just be my friend again." He aware he was begging, and how pathetic and incoherent it made him appear;―but he hoped, perhaps, that Ron would thereby take pity on him.

Ron placed his silver down on his plate. "Dean, is that seat taken there?"

"Erm―no, Ron."

And at his reply, Ron picked up his dinner, and, apologizing briefly to his female companion, seated himself farther away beside Dean.

Harry trembled, his breath picking up in speed and quivering unwilled. A friendship of over six years was gone in a moment, and there was no mending it; for _truly_ mending it required an alteration in his being, which, no matter how much he desired for it, was altogether impossible. He looked at Ron, who was now engaged in happy conversation with Dean and Seamus;―and how Harry did so long to be a part of it! Ron glanced up at him, and Harry, hoping desperately that it was a positive gesture, smiled in return. Ron's expression, however, turned dull and blank, and it was as though he should have never known Harry at all; and, quickly looking away, he resumed with his friends (his new best friends, Harry supposed), and began again to talk of that most important and beloved subject of the teenage boy, in which Harry knew he could never again participate:―girls.

He forced his eyes away from Ron and let them wander, however despondently, about the hall; and it was not long before he chanced upon Draco, who, it appeared, had been observing Harry himself. His countenance wore a pleased, arrogant smile which bespoke to Harry much vaunting and a cruel enjoyment of his misery. After what Harry had decided was a most impudent bow, Draco turned away from him and re-engaged with his friends, as though to mock him in his friendlessness. They laughed and talked as though everything in the world were wonderful and right; but indeed it was not so for Harry, for whom the world was instead all suffering and agony. And he was the cause of it;―that evil, blonde bastard had told Ron what doubtless he knew would destroy Harry forever. Oh, how he loathed him that very moment more than he ever had! "You had no right," Harry whispered with a violence unsteadily reined. It had been _Harry's_ secret; _his_ to bear; and _his _to confess when _he _decided; and Draco, appropriating the right for himself and his own villainous designs, quickly destroyed, in one cool, calm breath, every chance Harry ever had at happiness;―seized, _wrenched_ from him the only family Harry had ever known; for without Ron, there was no Fred and George, no Mr and Mrs Weasley, no Burrow, no flying car,―there was nothing, _nobody _remaining; not even Hermione, who, being obviously in love with Ron (had always been), when her allegiance is brought to the test, should forsake him just as all the others. And despite all of this―or perhaps, Harry considered, _because _of it―, Draco eagerly divulged his secret to Ron; and now he was celebrating his decided triumph, laughing and carousing with his friends while Harry sat miserable by his doing. _No!_ Harry would not allow it. Draco, though having always been a most spiteful and dastardly foe, had this time gone beyond any ordinary wicked or spineless scheme; for yesterday, without mercy, without humanity, he sought to ruin a life, _Harry's _life, and accomplished the task with all smugness and gloating attending him! A terrible and unrestrainable rage had now completely betaken Harry. His hand reached into his pocket, and before even having consciously willed it, he had thrown back his chair and, leaping upon the table to a clamour of plates and cutlery, and the surprise of all, was pointing his wand across the room toward Draco Malfoy and shouting every dark and horrible curse he could at that delirious and reckless moment call to mind, or had the power to cast. The distance between them and the wildness of the attack, however, had all the elements of inaccuracy, and indeed every Incendio, Furnunculus, Conjunctivitis, and Confundus he had cast, all struck poor Millicent Bulstrode, who, in having sat next to Draco and having a rather fat frame, unwittingly supplied Harry with an essentially unmissable target. Harry stared with horror as the charred, burning, boil-covered Bulstrode fell onto her back screaming and writhing and thrashing about like a savage animal,―her legs and arms contorted into horrible, arthritic positions, and her fat face, what was at least recognisable, twisted into utmost pain; and before Harry could cast a healing or reversal spell, Snape had shouted "Stupefy!", and the room had gone black.

When Harry had regained consciousness, he found himself seated in a large, soft armchair in the Headmaster's office. Professor Dumbledore sat facing him and, sucking on a boiled sweet, greeted Harry with his usual and imperturbable cheer. Harry did not return the greeting however, for the panic and remembrance of what he had done superseded, at that moment, any necessary civility.

"Miss Bulstrode! Oh, Lord! Is she okay? I tried to heal her, but Snape, he―. The spells, they weren't meant for her; they were meant for Malfoy! Oh! is she healed? Is she all better? Why do not you speak? Will not you tell me?"

"Not to worry, Harry; she's all healed up; and though she's spending the night in the infirmary, I dare say, she looked healthy enough to have been released. In fact, I said as much; but you know, Pompfrey. The old nurse _will_ have her way."

Despite Dumbledore's rather jovial mien, Harry was entirely aware that a summons to the Headmaster's office was no trifling matter and must indeed be most serious.

"Headmaster," began Harry solemnly, "if I'm to be expelled, kindly inform me of it now. I sha'n't argue with you, I promise."

Dumbledore stood and offered him a pear drop; and, Harry not accepting, he took one himself and walked to window. "Expelled? Goodness me! I haven't expelled anyone since―" (thinking a moment); "no, indeed, I have never expelled anyone. And, being a old, old man, Harry, I am quite unlikely to change my ways."

"But, what I did―"

"―Was alarming, certainly. Poor Miss Bulstrode,―all those ugly boils. Yes, very alarming to look at indeed, but, I dare say, when was she not? And besides, she's all better now; so really, was there any harm ultimately done?"

Harry was all astonishment. It was almost certain he would be expelled; and oddly he could not but help feel a strong pang of disappointment that he hadn't been. He now began to apprehend that perhaps his attempted attack, beyond the rashness and delirium of it, had a clear and calculated motive;―to indeed be expelled from Hogwarts that he might be freed from the pain it would further bring him. That bitter thought of enduring another twelvemonth of increasing misery, returned in Harry's heart those earlier desperate emotions; and, in his great anxiety and also being rather confounded by the Headmaster's remarks, he shouted, "'Was there any harm ultimately done?'! You are a doddering old fool, if I've ever seen one! Her skin was _flaying_! What ought one do to get expelled from this fucking school?―This, perhaps?" He overturned Dumbledore's desk, and all the parchment, ink, sweets, and those damned kinetic balls crashed loudly in a chaotic heap upon the floor. A lazy flick of Dumbledore's wand, however, returned everything as it had been.

"Severus does insist on your expulsion," said he, as though Harry's outburst was nothing at all; "but he's always been a bit of an old grump, has not he? And, while I must disappoint him, I did grant him this fair compromise: that, in light of this small instance of tomfoolery―,"

"―_Tomfoolery?_―"

"―a suspension might possibly (if to everyone's approbation) be in order."

"You're _suspending_ me―that's all?―for setting Millicent Bulstrode on fire?"

"It is quite severe, is not it?" sighed the old man plaintively. "After all 'boys will be boys', as the timeless adage does profess. What say you, Harry? I shall leave it to you. Do you think a suspension too severe? Oh, I never understood punishment, myself."

"Indeed you should not leave it to me; but if you do, then I insist I must be expelled."

"No, no, that is too severe, too severe." He reflected a moment, chewing on a piece of gummy treat. "A suspension, however... It _would_ mean early holidays for you, would not it? Then you would be happy despite your punishment; and Severus would be happy because of it; and I would be allowed to eat all my lovely little sweeties in peace. Yes! that is very agreeable."

"But Headmaster―!"

"Yes! Harry, I approve it most readily," said he with a mouth full of sweets. "Off you go, then; pack your things, and have a wonderful _extended _holiday, you lucky, lucky boy!―Now, where were we? Come here, little Percy Pig, I promise to be gentle."

Incredulous, but knowing there was nothing left to argue, Harry quitted the office for Gryffindor Tower; and, in beginning to pack away his clothes and further belongings, he considered with deep melancholy that, for the first time in his life, he truly wanted to return to Privet Drive.


End file.
